


Night Bursts into Flame

by ohanotherday



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: ...Except the death is probably not quite who you were expecting, Alternate Universe - Historical, Frottage, Horror, Jack the Ripper AU, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Mentions of Resurrection, Rape, Rape/Non-con References, Stiles is a shitty drunk, Underage - Freeform, Violence, drunk!Stiles, mentions of gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-18
Updated: 2012-11-18
Packaged: 2017-11-18 22:16:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/565866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohanotherday/pseuds/ohanotherday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles cannot hold his liquor. This fact alone would be perfectly acceptable if the year wasn’t 1888 and there wasn’t a serial killer prowling the streets of Beacon Hills.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Night Bursts into Flame

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from the song [“Helena” by the Misfits](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PHVrkuf2uO8). Possibly the creepiest song to listen to while writing a horror story. Also the most fitting in my opinion.

Stiles stumbled out of Scott’s house. While Scott stayed mostly sober throughout the night, insisting he had to walk his mother home from work, Stiles drank far too much alcohol. Especially considering how there was a serial killer terrorizing Beacon Hills. But Stiles didn’t know what else to do, and alcohol had seemed like the best coping mechanism so far.

A week ago Lydia Martin had been found dead. Though ‘dead’ wasn’t even the correct word for it. More like her body had been found carved apart. Her throat had been slashed, and her abdomen had been sliced open. Stiles shuddered at the thought. It hadn’t been fully disclosed to the newspapers, but in the autopsy report, her body had been missing its heart and a few other organs.

Stiles had been hopeful while she was missing, insisting that the only reason she was absent from school was because she was finally running away from Beacon Hills. The town was far too small for someone so intelligent. She needed to get far away from here. But no. She was dead. Murdered before she could even graduate from high school.

Stiles made his way through the grimy alleyways. He had convinced Scott he was sober enough, and though Scott didn’t necessarily believe it, he ran off to make sure his mother wouldn’t walk home alone from the hospital. It had made sense at the time. Stiles’ house wasn’t anywhere near where the murders were occurring, but the hospital was right in the middle of it. Plus, Stiles wasn’t exactly the type of person who the serial killer seemed to be targeting, so he insisted he would be fine. The last thing he wanted on his conscience was Scott’s mother getting hurt because of him.

Stiles stumbled out of the shadows. It would probably be wiser to stay on the more travelled roads, but he at least tried to stay in the lamplight. As long as he stayed away from the darkness, maybe he had a fighting chance to not be killed in the same brutal fashion as Lydia. She had been the seventh found in such a horrifying manner, and it wasn’t like Beacon Hills was so huge that Stiles could be gambling with his life.

The murders all had the same identifying factors—slashed throat, sliced abdomen, missing organs—but the people who were being targeted varied. There were either middle-aged men or beautiful women being found dead. If anything, it made it seem as if the serial killer was just randomly killing people, but the deaths all seemed connected. Stiles swore something was amiss, but Scott brushed it off. Stiles had wanted to yell at Scott for trying to live in ignorance, but stopped when he saw the fear in Scott’s eyes. It was awful thinking about who might be targeted next, and clearly it was something Scott thought about constantly. Talking about it out loud only made the situation even more terrifying.

It was colder outside than usual, and Stiles clutched at his jacket, doing his best to rub warmth back into his arms. He could see his breath puffing up in front of him, and his nose felt frozen. Mist was descending down on Beacon Hills, and it was starting to become increasingly menacing. Stiles paused to button up his jacket, but when he stopped, he heard footsteps behind him. Stiles whipped around, but nothing was there. He licked his lips before nervously chuckling. He was going to make himself go crazy. The alcohol was probably just making him imagine things. Seriously, it was all just hallucinations. It probably wasn’t even footsteps he heard. It could’ve been a cat scurrying across the street or a dog rummaging through some trash cans. Stiles eyed the surrounding areas, eyes darting into the shadows to see some hidden person, but there was nothing. He turned around and headed home.

Stiles’ jacket wasn’t thick enough for the cold air, and his teeth started chattering. He turned onto his street, walking faster when he saw the darkened house. His father’s badge had been taken away when Lydia was found dead. There were already so many others who had been killed in the same fashion as her, and the Whittemores had made it their personal crusade to get Stiles’ father fired. Stiles wondered if Mr. Whittemore was honestly concerned about the safety of the town or if he had finally succumbed to Jackson’s pleas.

Stiles understood that Jackson must’ve loved Lydia and hated the fact that the sheriff department couldn’t solve the murder cases, but his father had been working night and day to find the serial killer. It wasn’t his father’s fault that there was hardly any evidence to point to a culprit. If anything, Jackson was being a selfish brat for thinking getting Stiles’ father fired would fix anything.

However, rather than be unemployed, his father had decided to work in the next town over for a little while—at least until the Whittemores stopped trying to punish Stiles’ father. While Stiles didn’t mind seeing less and less of his father, it was creepy being home alone all the time. However, Stiles wasn’t going to start whining to his father about staying alone in Beacon Hills after dark. Stiles was already making a poor choice to walk home alone in the dead of night, and he would’ve made the same foolish decision whether his dad was in Beacon Hills or not.

Stiles paused as he walked up the steps to his house. For a moment, he thought his father was home early, but he realized that would’ve been impossible. But some person was definitely standing on the porch. It was too late for visitors, but here some mysterious person stood, staring at Stiles. The man didn’t say anything, and Stiles nervously thought about running back to Scott’s house, screaming the whole way there. Stiles looked over his shoulder once before returning his gaze to the man. “Can I help you?”

“Yes, I’m looking for the sheriff.”

Stiles was heavily feeling the effects of the alcohol, and found it hard to stand up straight. If this was the serial killer, Stiles didn’t stand a chance. However, a serial killer wouldn’t go looking for the sheriff—or even the ex-sheriff. Stiles tottered on his feet, stumbling backward down the stairs. He grunted when the man caught him by the shoulders, easing him up to the porch.

“There, there, you should go inside,” the man tsked as if Stiles’ inability to hold his liquor was something to be ashamed of, and Stiles suddenly felt like a child being scolded. “Here, I’ll help you.”

Stiles tried shoving him away, but his motor skills were significantly impaired. All he could do was rest his head on the man’s shoulder while he checked Stiles’ pockets for keys. The man’s hands lingered a bit too long, and Stiles jerked back.

“I’m-I’m.” Stiles paused. He was something. Definitely something.

The man smiled amicably. “You’re Stiles.” He pulled Stiles back into his grip, hauling him to the front door and unlocking it. Once inside, the man shut the door and locked it. “And I’m Peter.” This time, the man’s grin was far more wolfish. He looked behind Stiles, surveying the hallways. “Where’s your room?”

Stiles turned his head toward the stairs, pointing a shaky finger.

Peter’s smile waned before hauling Stiles up again. “Of course.”

Stiles wasn’t the heaviest boy in school, but he knew he weighed a pretty good amount. Nevertheless, Peter lifted him as if Stiles weighed nothing. “Th-thanks,” Stiles slurred. He usually had to crawl up the stairs when he was drunk, but this was so much easier. Perhaps strange people who appeared at your house in the middle of the night weren’t so suspicious after all. Stiles attempted to take off his shoes when Peter dumped him on the bed, but there was no such luck. Annoyed, Stiles grabbed at the pillow, squeezing it tight and ignoring how his clothes were far too restrictive.

When Stiles heard no retreating footsteps, he opened an eyelid. Peter was still hovering, staring at him as if in some deep thought. When Peter turned on a light, Stiles burrowed his head deeper into his pillow. His brain refused to work with him, and Stiles felt like it deserved the night off. As long as Stiles got to sleep, Peter could keep standing there all night.

Stiles groaned when he felt his boots being unlaced and removed. That felt good. But then hands started tracing over his clothing. Stiles rolled over onto his back, attempting and failing at kicking Peter. He hadn’t invited him to whatever _this_ was. Removing boots, act of kindness; feeling up his legs, creepy and unacceptable. Stiles sat up and attempted to swat at Peter’s hands, panicking when Peter grabbed him by the wrists and pinned him to the bed.

A small smile tugged at the corner of Peter’s mouth. “You shouldn’t let strangers into your house.”

Stiles continued squirming and yelled out for help, nearly escaping from the bed when Peter released one of his wrists. But then Stiles felt a blade pushing against his throat.

“Lay down.”

Stiles obeyed the command, unsure if his motor skills would’ve allowed him to deal with a knife so near his throat. Though the alcohol had been putting him to sleep, Stiles started shaking as he laid back down on the bed. Peter was still gripping his wrist tightly, and the knife pressed menacingly against Stiles’ chin.

Stiles’ eyes flicked over the room. There had to be something in here to use against Peter, but Stiles’ thinking was clouded. His head felt foggy, as if he were still outside in the mist. Or possibly as if the mist had gotten into his brain. Adrenal was pumping through his body, urging him to run, but Stiles knew he was almost at the point of blacking out from all the alcohol he had consumed. His eyes darted over Peter’s body, straining to see in the dim light if there were some weapon Stiles could use against him. There weren’t any guns or extra knives visible, but there could be more weapons hidden within the man’s coat.

Suddenly Stiles’ heartbeat started jackrabbiting as realization caught up with him. This was the serial killer. This was the man who killed those people. He killed Lydia. He probably carved her up with the knife currently pressed against Stiles’ neck. Stiles’ leg pushed up as if he would try once more to squirm away, but even in his drunken haze, he realized it was a futile attempt. Peter was surely going to carve him up, slicing the ex-sheriff’s son up in his own home.

Minutes passed without Peter doing anything, but then he squeezed Stiles’ wrist tighter. “Stop crying,” Peter gritted out. Stiles hadn’t even realized he was, but now a sob managed to break loose. His chest kept heaving, and Stiles could only think about how the knife pressed against his chin would soon slash across his throat, causing a cascade of blood.

“Please don’t,” Stiles gasped. “Please don’t kill me.” Stiles gave up on trying to breathe correctly when Peter let go of his other wrist. Stiles could still feel the sharp knife against his skin, keeping him locked in place.

Peter’s free hand skimmed over Stiles’ chest. “Unbutton your shirt.”

The fog was still clouding Stiles’ thinking, but he managed to look defiant. He wasn’t going to willingly help with his death. If he was going to be killed, he wanted to at least know he put up a fight. Peter didn’t move, but when Stiles glanced at him, there was something sinister in his eyes. They weren’t exactly lifeless but something about them made Stiles look away. The knife pressed harder against his chin and when Peter angled it as if to slash, Stiles shakily brought his hands up and attempted the first button. Stiles tried calming himself down. If he stalled long enough, there had to be some opportunity to escape. He just had to be patient and hope he didn’t blackout before then. When Stiles’ shirt was opened, Peter ran a hand over his naked chest.

Stiles could only imagine how Peter was mapping it out, making plans to slice him open and remove whatever organs he wanted. But the Ripper—how the _Beacon Hills Chronicle_ so cleverly dubbed the killer—usually left rest of the exterior of his victims’ bodies in equally horrible conditions. Stiles had seen the official photographs of the gruesome murders, but it was nauseating just reading the case files alone. Kate Argent’s throat had been severed down to the spine when her body was found in an abandoned house, her face bashed in to an unrecognizable state. Lydia and the others had not only been left missing organs, but the men who were murdered had been found with their genital areas mutilated.

Stiles shuddered to think how his father would find him. His father was supposed to get home in the early morning hours, but he might not bother checking on Stiles until the middle of the day. Stiles couldn’t handle imagining what his father would do when he found him dead. His father could barely handle the loss of Stiles’ mother, and that had been a death that they had both seen coming. His father might just put a bullet into his head at the sight of his only child’s body carved up.

“What was your plan, huh?” Stiles jutted out his chin, ignoring the way the cool blade followed his jaw. “Kill the ex-sheriff’s kid? Or did I-did I just get in the way of a break in?” Stiles’ words slurred, and his eyes were getting harder to keep open, but he wanted to delay this for as long as possible. He had shouted loud enough, so there was a chance someone might’ve heard. Stalling was his only hope of staying alive. And if he tried hard enough, he could pretend to be less drunk than he was feeling. His dad usually noticed when Stiles was pretending to be sober, but Peter was a stranger. He didn’t know all of Stiles’ weird quirks. “Is Peter even your real name? You must be incredibly stupid or rid-ridiculous,” Stiles licked his lips, “ridiculously arrogant.”

Peter raised an eyebrow. “It’s my Christian name.”

Stiles rolled his eyes, hoping Peter could tell just how hard he was judging him. “What a kind, God-fearing serial killer you are,” Stiles sighed in exasperation. If there was a God, Lydia wouldn’t have been so brutally murdered. Someone surely would’ve intervened.

“And you suppose that God should be able to stop every single crime?” The laughter was evident in Peter’s voice, and Stiles tried to narrow his eyes.

“So you agree that this is a crime? Killing people? Taking out their hearts?” Stiles head lolled to the side, and the blade was an ever constant as it moved with him. “I was worried you were some doctor thinking he was doing some good for mankind.”

Peter’s eyes crinkled up slightly. “Why do you think I’m a doctor?”

The cold air in the room was making goosebumps spring up all over him, and the way Peter’s hand stilled over Stiles’ heart made him want to try screaming for help again. “You’re-you’re dressed too fancy to be a butcher.” Stiles closed his eyes when Peter leaned closer to him. Peter’s eyes were too evil and too scrutinizing. If Stiles was going to be killed in his own bed, he didn’t need to be judged by some lunatic wielding a dangerously sharp knife. “And the-the killer had to have some knowledge of anatomy.”

“Perhaps I just read a few books and liked the idea of frying people’s organs.”

Stiles was afraid to open his eyes. The laughter in Peter’s voice hadn’t disappeared, but he didn’t want to look in Peter’s eyes and see if he was joking or being serious. Lydia might not have been Stiles’ friend, but she had been a classmate. He couldn’t help but feel a pang of hurt at the thought of her body being treated like that.

Peter’s fingers lightly tapped against Stiles’ chest, as if urging Stiles to continue bantering. However, Stiles was already close to falling asleep. Any hopes of someone rescuing him were long gone, and at least now he felt pretty sure that if he died, it would be sudden. All of the other victim’s bodies had deep slashes along their throats, and it was assumed it was the first thing the serial killer did. Considering that the blade was already resting against Stiles’ throat, it might be quick despite not being painless.

When Peter’s nails dug into Stiles’ skin, he sharply inhaled. His eyes were still shut tight, and for a moment, Stiles thought he was being suffocated when he felt his mouth being covered. Some of the victims had been killed that way, suffocated and then throat slashed second. Stiles opened his eyes, surprised when he realized Peter was kissing him. Attempting one last moment of brilliance, Stiles grabbed Peter’s jacket and pulled him closer. He didn’t bother with kissing Peter back, but he did want to see if there was another weapon Stiles could turn on Peter. Stiles tugged the jacket open, rifling for any extra knives or guns while Peter bit Stiles’ lips. However, Stiles’ hands came up empty.

“If you’re done feeling me up, I suppose I should tell you that the only knife I have is currently against your throat.”

Stiles’ glazed stare met Peter’s eyes with trepidation. “Oh.” At least Peter wasn’t stupid enough to think that Stiles was actually fine with his personal space being invaded. “Maybe you should bring more next time.”

“Next time?” Peter raised an eyebrow. “Already planning our next meeting so soon?”

“N-no! I’m just saying, you should bring more things if you’re actually going to kill somebody,” Stiles slurred.

“Well that would be foolish. I wouldn’t want someone to turn my own blade against me.”

Peter shoved Stiles over, yanking Stiles’ pants down to his knees. Stiles failed once more with trying to escape, but it only helped Peter’s efforts at removing Stiles’ pants and underwear. When Peter repositioned himself on top of Stiles, his cock pressed between Stiles’ ass cheeks.

“Don’t,” Stiles ordered.

Peter brought the blade up against Stiles’ neck, pressing too close against his jaw. “Don’t what?”

“Just don’t.” Stiles’ field of vision started to turn black, and instead of screaming, he passed out into the pillow.

Peter brought the knife away from Stiles’ neck. He didn’t want to nick Stiles—at least not yet. The blade had some blood on it though, and when Peter tilted Stiles head over, he could see a few droplets of blood trailing down from his jaw to his pillow. Peter leaned in close enough to lick up the blood sticking to Stiles’ skin.

Stiles wasn’t wrong in calling Peter out as a doctor, but he wasn’t using the organs for scientific purposes. While many people believed it was a doctor simply due to all the cases of grave robbing, Peter had bigger plans than seeing how exactly the left ventricle worked in the heart. There were things far grander than working in the medical field. Peter rubbed up against Stiles, moaning at the fiction. Stiles would be passed out for a while, but Peter wanted to enjoy this while it lasted. He hadn’t had any physical contact in a very long time—not since before the fire. And while killing the arsonists had felt good, it wasn’t the same sort of pleasure he was getting from rubbing up against Stiles.

The others who he killed—the men who burned his family—had been seduced by Kate. Their idiotic sexual fantasies had been the reason Kate so easily manipulated them, and Peter made sure they all suffered for what they did to his family. Stiles whined in his sleep when Peter pressed a hand underneath his shirt. Peter hushed him, pretending to soothe. Stiles would barely remember any of this tomorrow. Stiles would wake up in the morning, confused and covered in come. Peter rubbed against Stiles harder, thinking about what Stiles would do if he did remember.

Peter still held onto his knife, wary of what someone would do if he was found. He had checked into the elder Stilinski’s work schedule and knew he wouldn’t be home until later, but Stiles had been rather loud in calling for help. With his hand not holding the knife, Peter squeezed Stiles’ waist. While Stiles was in no means tiny (he was rather tall and had been difficult to carry up the stairs), his waist was small. Almost as small as Lydia’s. Peter gripped Stiles’ waist tightly, wondering if it would bruise. He hadn’t meant to be so cruel to her, but her death was a necessary evil. But she wouldn’t be dead for much longer. As long as Peter’s plans went through, many people wouldn’t be dead for much longer.

Peter stilled as he came, letting his seed spill over Stiles’ back. Peter climbed off the bed, tucking his cock back inside his pants. Stiles hadn’t moved, but when Peter moved some of the semen into Stiles’ ass, his leg twitched. Peter waited to see if Stiles would wake up, but he was still fast asleep. Peter covered him with a blanket in case Stiles’ father were to check up on him. Before leaving the room, Peter turned off the light.

Peter roamed around in the house, looking for the case files. If he was going to go through with his great scheme, some of the evidence would need to be tampered with. These sorts of murders weren’t typically found in small towns, and he would need to find some way to keep the story from spreading. The case files hadn’t been at the sheriff’s department, and Peter knew they must still be in the Stilinski household. When Peter found the paper work, he read through them, making very tiny adjustments that would point toward Gerard Argent as the culprit. Peter had considered making it so the town believed Derek had committed the grisly murders, but no matter how Kate had managed to pry information out of his nephew, Derek was still family. Derek had been young and naïve and foolish, forgetting to put his family first, but Peter didn’t want to punish Derek for that. They had all suffered enough.

Peter left through the front door, uncaring who saw him. Stiles was still alive upstairs, and if anyone asked Stiles what had happened, he would most likely fabricate some story. Well, Stiles would if he knew what was good for him. The blade hadn’t done any serious damage to Stiles’ skin, but it would be enough to make Stiles wonder what could’ve happened if Peter wanted to kill him. Peter used Stiles’ keys to lock the door, pocketing them as he made his way down the street. He definitely had no intentions of leaving the town for a very long time.


End file.
